Regression
by Rosie26
Summary: A young man is tormented by ghosts from the past and a fear of flames - what is it he needs in order to find peace. A tad AU, and movie-verse. Constructive reviews welcome.
1. Flynn

**I'm not normally into modern-day adaptations, but wanted to try something different, a one-off idea. Unfortunately, I still don't own Prof.Tolkien's characters.**

**Many thanks to Quillon for her help and advice.**

**REGRESSION**

**Chapter One: FLYNN  
**  
He fascinates me, this young man, who introduced himself simply as Flynn. He has an aura that is intense, but in no way threatening, for I detect an underlying gentleness.  
  
When he first came to me, he was a soul in torment, fighting the unidentified demons of his past. He was nervous - afraid of learning the truth, but afraid of not learning it. These demons remain nameless, but he seems now to have some belief that we will find the answers he is looking for.  
  
In two months, we have established that he was a priest during World War One, a Puritan farmer in 17th century England, and a physician in 15th century Italy, where he fell victim to The Black Death. It's possible that he has had other lives also, but these appear to be the most traumatic and therefore the most easily recollected, but as yet, we cannot account for his overwhelming pyrophobia which was apparent during his first consultation. When I lit a cigarette, he even flinched from the flame which emanated from the lighter.  
  
At first I just probed gently into his background, and learned that he was the youngest son of a wealthy industrialist and landowner, living in a renovated castle some 20 miles from Dublin.  
  
"My father wants me to join the family business," he said, "but it's not the life I want for myself. I'm a songwriter, but my family don't see that as acceptable - or respectable."  
  
With further questioning I ascertained that his problems really began with the death of his mother two years previously, after which, and for reasons he couldn't fathom, he became more and more estranged from his father, whilst at the same time, developing an almost obsessive devotion to his older brother.  
  
"There's something in my head," he said. "Something that's there, but out of reach. Ever since my mother died, I get brief moments when I feel as though I have a memory of something, but I can't hold on to it. All I'm sure of is that I can't cope with any criticism from my dad, and I have this morbid fear that I'm going to lose my brother."  
  
"And the flames?" I asked.  
  
He visibly paled even at the word, and his voice became little more than a whisper.  
  
"I've had a phobia about fire for as long as I can remember, but it's been worse since my mother died. I think it's all connected, but I've no idea how, or why."  
  
"Then let's find out." I said.

His first few sessions have been interesting, but basically uninformative. So far, my approach has been cautious, but it's become obvious to me that he has issues which have accompanied him through countless generations. I believe the root of his fears lie much further back than we have so far attempted, and today I plan to reach that part of his subconscious which could provide him with the answers he seeks.  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
He seems happy and relaxed. "By the sea."  
  
"Are you male or female?"  
  
"Male," he replies. "I'm a child - very small."  
  
"Are you alone?" I ask.  
  
"No, my brother is with me. I'm sitting on his shoulders."  
  
"Is there anyone else with you?"  
  
He is silent for a while, before drawing breath sharply.  
  
"What do you see?" He seems emotional, but I take the opportunity to delve further.  
  
"My mother - she's so beautiful!"  
  
His breath becomes rapid, and he chokes back the sobs that threaten to escape.  
  
"Are you still by the sea?" I ask, unsure whether to continue should he become more distressed.  
  
"No," he replies. "I'm in a room. My brother is crying. She's never coming back. My father says we have to be brave, but I don't understand."  
  
I ask him his name, and his answer surprises me somewhat - it's unlike any name I've heard before.  
  
"Faramir."  
  
I feel loath to interrupt his train of thought, and tell him to relax, and to tell me all he can remember about Faramir's life. I speak only to provide a gentle stimulus, for occasionally he falters. I decide to ask about his brother, to try and find a connection between his past, and his present day fears.  
  
"Tell me about your brother."  
  
"Boromir looks after me," he replies. "Father is always busy."

He proceeds to talk at some length about his life as the privileged son of a man who holds an important office in a country of which I have no knowledge.  
  
Hesitantly, I ask whether his childhood was happy.  
  
"Sometimes," is the eventual reply. "But we don't go to the sea together anymore. Father has no time, and it pains him too much for it was my mother's favourite place. My uncle came to take Boromir and me to Dol Amroth, but Father wouldn't let Boromir go......he let Uncle Imrahil take me though."  
  
"Did your father always give you what you want?" I ask with a smile that reflects in my voice, but I immediately realise that I've made a mistake. His brow furrows. "No - but my presence isn't as important to him as that of Boromir - he's the eldest, and the heir. Father is proud of him."  
  
"And he isn't of you?"  
  
"I try to please him," he continues, "but my efforts are usually wasted. He always finds faults with me. He thinks I'll make a poor soldier because I like to read and learn - and I don't want to kill."  
  
"Where are you now?" I ask gently, afraid of startling him, and losing this connection to his subconscious mind - to his soul.  
  
"The River Anduin. Father has taken us to a military post there, where Boromir will soon serve as a soldier. I want to prove I'm brave, to make him proud. I jump in, and start swimming towards the other side, but there's a current, and I'm not strong enough. I'm too scared to call out, but Boromir sees me, and jumps into the river. He reaches me but the current is too strong for him also. There's a lot of shouting, and we're rescued by a soldier who has swum out with a rope tied around him, and we're pulled back to the bank. Boromir yells at me - he never does that and it scares me. I tell him I just wanted to prove to Father that I'm brave - but Father is very angry. He calls me stupid and says that next time I want to kill myself, I should do it when I'm alone, so that I don't take anyone else with me."  
  
He pauses, before adding softly, and as though deep in thought, "It's Boromir who gets all the praise for being brave."  
  
"Do you resent this? Do you resent Boromir?"  
  
"No!" His voice is surprisingly passionate. "He was more than my brother - he was my best friend. It wasn't his fault that Father loved him best."  
  
I decide that it's time to bring him back to the present, and tell him that upon awakening, he will remember everything he has told me, but although he remembers what has been said, he has no real sensation of the events themselves. As he leaves, I give him a recording of the session and tell him to listen to it at every opportunity - but I advise him to stay relaxed and not to try too hard to remember, for that could cause stress which could obstruct the path way to his memories.  
  
We have another session in a week's time, before which I fly to a conference in New York. I have compiled a dossier on Faramir, aka Patient A, and I am anxious to hear the opinion of my fellow therapists, for despite my fascination with his story, it appears to me to be just the work of an overactive imagination - a fantasy life that he may have created for himself at some time, for whatever reason. There is no historical documentation to substantiate his memories, for I can find no reference to the places he refers to - Minas Tirith, Gondor, Dol Amroth and more.  
  
I fear it may not be hypnotherapy he needs, but psychotherapy.

**TBC**

_**I've investigated regression to a degree, and had some advice but please allow me some poetic licence here. :o)**_


	2. Awakening

**Thanks to Lhaewin for her never-ending support.******

****

**REGRESSION**. **_The Awakening_**.

When he arrives for our next session, he is full of enthusiasm, and anxious to begin. He becomes susceptible almost immediately, and starts to talk about his birthday.  
  
"How old are you?"  
  
"15."  
  
"How do you celebrate it?" I ask.  
  
"Boromir takes me to an inn," he replies with a smile. "He's a soldier now, and doesn't live in the Citadel anymore, but he's come back specially."  
  
"And your father – is he with you?"  
  
He laughs. "He wasn't invited. My father can't be seen frequenting the taverns of Minas Tirith."  
  
"Did your father acknowledge your birthday?"  
  
He smiles again. He looks very content, and I surmise that his moods seem to be linked to whatever the situation in his home life.  
  
"He gave me a horse," he replies, "A horse from Rohan. And a flute. The flute is a surprise – he's never encouraged me to be musical."  
  
"So at this time, your relationship with your father is quite good?" I ask.  
  
"Yes – I sometimes wonder if it's because Boromir isn't there as much – that maybe he's lonely. But it doesn't last anyway, because Mithrandir arrives a few days later."  
  
"Mithrandir?"  
  
"Gandalf – the wizard. My father despises him, but I feel close to him. He's always treated me with respect and affection, and has taught me so much. I feel comfortable with him, and he encourages me to believe in myself."  
  
"Why do you think your father hates him?"  
  
"My father only trusts what he understands – the history and security of Gondor, and the rule of the Stewards. He doesn't approve of magic – or the elves. Mithrandir is close to the elves....."  
  
I close my eyes briefly and wonder if I should continue with this case. His reference to wizards and elves all but convince me that what's in his mind is not memory, but vivid imagination – and yet I'm intrigued by the fluency with which he relates his story. There is no hesitation over detail; names of people and places are spoken of so naturally, there is no question in my mind that everything he talks about is real to his sub-conscious mind, for I have never encountered a patient who could relate so effortlessly a total fabrication.  
  
I suggest that we move forward to the next significant moment in his life.  
  
"Ithilien," he says. "My father sends me to Ithilien to serve with the Rangers. It's not easy – they resent me because I'm young and inexperienced, and the son of the Steward. It's dangerous – we are constantly on alert for war parties of orcs and Haradrim."  
  
I can't help myself, and I interrupt to ask about these strange- sounding adversaries.  
  
"Orcs," he says, his face contorting with distaste. "Abominations of life – evil creatures with no compassion, no code of ethics or morals, just a lust for killing and depravity. And the Haradrim – humans but hardly deserving of the title. They are cruel and merciless. Neither Orcs nor Harad have little use for prisoners – certain slow death follows capture if rescue is not possible."  
  
He talks for a while about his life with the Rangers of Ithilien – how the soldiers eventually accept him, and how, at 25 years of age, he became their Captain.  
  
Despite my doubts, I was enthralled by his account of life in the realm of Gondor, a life in which he suffered continual denigration by his father, but he speaks with pleasure of the close bond he shared with his brother, and who he saw far too rarely.  
  
"We fight together sometimes," he says. "We fought to regain Osgiliath – it was a great victory, especially for Boromir. Father makes it plain that it was my fault the city was lost....." His voice tailed to a whisper. Boromir tries to reason with him, but to no avail. He doesn't want to know....**_my uses are few_**......" He falls silent, and when I look at him I see the trace of a tear on his cheek. Whatever he remembers, it has stirred his emotions, affecting him deeply.  
  
"He left that day. I never saw my brother again....only in a dream."  
  
"What happened to him?" I ask gently.  
  
"He died." Despite his emotions, his voice is firm and controlled. "In my dream I saw him in a boat – he had a warrior's funeral. He died bravely – trying to save Merry and Pippin."  
  
His brow furrowed. "Pippin........?"  
  
I am both encouraged and excited by this...it's obvious to me that in his sub-conscious state, he is not only remembering, but is registering some knowledge of what is to come, for he has just spoken of something we have not yet reached.  
  
"Tell me about your dream," I ask. I don't want him to become confused by memory of too many events at one time.  
  
"When I woke, I knew it to be true. I knew in my heart that my brother was dead, and then his horn, the Horn of Gondor, was washed up on the banks of the Anduin. It was cloven in two. I ask the hobbits......."  
  
"Hobbits?"  
  
"Frodo and Sam - halflings – we captured them in Ithilien, and took them to Henneth Annun for questioning. They were with Boromir on the quest on which my father sent him – they don't know Boromir is dead. They're shocked when I tell them. I discover that Frodo carries the One Ring, which my father greatly desires. It's in my grasp. I want to take it to Minas Tirith – in my mind I imagine presenting it to my father, and seeing him smile. He rarely smiles anymore. The Ring is tempting me, putting these thoughts into my head, telling me it will earn my father's love – I see him looking at me with pride.....then Frodo shouts out and the image passes, but I tell him that the Ring will go to Gondor. I can't let a halfling just walk into Mordor with the Ring of Power........and I want to show my father that I am of some worth."  
  
Despite my misgivings, I anticipate eagerly what he has to say. He seems to be totally immersed now in this flood of memory or imagination. He rarely falters unless to contemplate – the story he tells still flows with ease. I feel myself drawn into this world, with concern for its inhabitants. I almost start to believe in its existence.  
  
"I believe I'm doing the right thing – it seems logical and sensible. It's vital that Sauron is not reunited with the Ring – but in Osgiliath I see for myself how it corrupts and destroys. Sam tells me that Boromir tried to take the ring from Frodo – he says he tried to kill the hobbit, but my brother was no murderer! I don't believe Sam, but then I see him at the mercy of Frodo, a sword at his throat until Frodo comes to his senses. I know then I have to let them go – to continue with this mission that has already taken the lives of my brother, and of Mithrandir. I can't let their deaths be in vain."  
  
"So you let them go?" I'm not exactly sure what the significance is of his actions, or indeed the significance of "the ring", but it's apparent that it was some important artefact, and that his father wanted it desperately.  
  
"Yes," he says softly. "And my life could be forfeit because of it – I have allowed strangers to wander at liberty in Ithilien which is a crime in itself. But I have released them, knowing they have the One Ring – my father's rage will be implacable. Inside I feel terrified of his reaction, but my heart tells me I have done the right thing."  
  
"And your father does learn of this?" I ask the question calmly, hoping to soothe him, for he is becoming agitated and nervous.  
  
"He disowns me – he says I am no longer his son. I don't deserve to be his heir – he nearly strikes me, but controls himself. I leave and go to my chambers to contemplate my future; the hobbit Pippin follows me and tells me how Boromir died - that he was trying to save Pippin and his cousin from Orcs – that's why he has sworn service to my father, to honour what he perceives to be a debt. I give him the black and silver livery that I wore when I was but 10 years old, and he says he is proud to wear it. He talks to me about Boromir, and I feel better – he died with honour, not as a man who tried to kill another living being for gain. He redeemed himself. I tell Pippin I want to be alone, and he understands. He knows I have to grieve for my brother.  
  
I'm alone for the first time in days, and my grief is overwhelming. There's nothing now to distract me, and all the emotions I suppressed because there was no time to deal with them are unleashed. I cry, and throw everything I can get my hands on – I know not what, nor care. My chamber is all but wrecked, and I sink to my knees and call out in anguish. I know it's me that I hear, and yet it seems remote, like a dream or a noise in the distance. Then I'm calm, but still shed tears. I feel alone – no-one was there for me in my torment, and though that was how I wanted it, I realise that this is how it will be in the future. Boromir is never coming back – those words go round and round in my head, and I feel like my soul has been ripped in two. Wherever Boromir is, he has part of me with him. My brother – my best friend – my protector is gone. I know I have many strengths for which I receive little recognition, but it was Boromir who laid the foundations for those strengths, with his support and his unconditional love when I was a child, and beyond. I am still kneeling on the floor, my head bowed, and there's an arm around my shoulders – a comforting arm that tightens around me, and it gives me a sense of relief. I look up expecting to see my father, but it's Mithrandir looking at me, with tears in his eyes also. I've never witnessed him weeping....and although I am grateful that he has been returned to us...that he wasn't dead as feared... I feel like there's a knife in my heart because it's he who is comforting me, and not my father."  
  
I say nothing, deciding to let things run their natural course. I will not prompt him unless he chooses to continue, for these images are causing him great distress. Finally though, he speaks again.  
  
"My father wishes I'd died instead of Boromir. He says so when I ask him. He tells me to retake Osgiliath – he cares not that it will be suicide. We are outnumbered – I feel the sharp stinging pain of an arrow piercing my shoulder – there is noise and confusion – there's pain and I feel as though I'm choking, for the air around me has become heavy and rancid. I vaguely hear the voice of one of my men urging my horse to take me home...but I'm hit again by another dart and I fall. I'm aware but not alert....then I'm lifted up and carried somewhere – I think I'm in Minas Tirith for I hear the voices of Pippin and my father...it's like a dream from which I can't waken... I want to say I'm alive but my body will not obey my commands. My father believes me to be dead – I can hear Pippin telling him I need medicine but he doesn't heed....inside I feel panic for I can't communicate........"  
  
I look at him sensing that we are finally about to confront his demons. He is sweating profusely and trembling, and I need to reassure him.  
  
"This is a memory," I say, "It can't harm you.....relax and remember, but you are quite safe."  
  
"I'm wet," he continues. "I feel it seeping through my clothing – thick greasy liquid – the smell reminds me of my night light when I was a child. I don't know where I am...there is shouting, and I try to open my eyes, but still I see nothing, and then there is heat, terrible heat, and the crackling of flames......I feel my flesh burning, and someone is pushing me, and I fall........and then I see my father....and flames all around him. He looks at me and says my name – and I can't see him anymore, just flames........just flames......" His voice is rising in panic, and I reach out and touch him.  
  
"I'm going to count back from 5, and you will wake up, and remember everything, but you will feel no fear."  
  
He is quiet for several minutes, as though struggling to come to terms with what he had learnt. Finally, he spoke, his voice husky and emotional.  
  
"Well, now I know."I saw him as a client on two more occasions – it seemed wise not to just abandon him to deal with such trauma alone. There was no more regression, but we talked, and I voiced my theory that his sub- conscious had been severely influenced by events such as those he had recounted, and that it was possibly a collection of memories from different lives, some real, some imaginary, some possibly taken from works of fiction that he had read at some point in his soul's long history.  
  
He was dubious, for the world he had described still felt very real to him, but his present-day persona had benefited from the experience, and he was confident he would conquer his nightmares and phobias.  
  
The whole experience had had an effect on me also....I found myself thinking of the events of his regression on more than one occasion, and was in fact doing so when the telephone rang.  
  
"Dr. Creagh? You don't know me, but I was given your name by a mutual friend, who attended the Case Study Conference in New York. The kid who called himself Faramir? Do you still treat him?"  
  
"No," I replied. "Although I am still in contact with him."  
  
"Well," he continued, "I think maybe you and I should meet. I work at a hospital in Vancouver, where one of my patients who suffered a breakdown, has been having regression treatment. He claims that in a past life he was the Steward of Gondor."  
  
**TBC**

**A/N: Sorry about Faramir's "tantrum". It seems to me he never really grieved properly, and I figure a sensitive person under great strain might well go a bit crazy.**

****


	3. Denethor 1

**Chapter 3 - Denethor (1)**

"Are you ready?" I ask him. 

He takes a deep breath and nods. Although some weeks have passed since the revelation of his life as Faramir of Gondor, he is still somewhat traumatised, but despite this, he is anxious to listen to the tapes I have recently received from Vancouver - a recording of the regression of a man whose long hidden memory told him that in one of his lives he was Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor - and father of Faramir.

Scarcely able to contain my own excitement, I turn on the cassette player, and press the Play button.

"I'm in a stone city, with a tower of white. My father is the Steward - his duties keep him busy, and he has little time for me. And I am a disappointment to him."

"What is your name?"

"Denethor."

"Why are you a disappointment?"

"Because I am a scholar. I love to read and to learn. He doesn't approve."

At this, Flynn closes his eyes as though in pain, for he remembers too well now how, as Faramir, his father had frequently ridiculed and derided him for indulging in scholarly pursuits.

"He continually flaunts Thorongil to me as an example," Denethor continued.

"Thorongil?"

"He is my father's friend, and is renowned in battle although he is only my age. He is treated with reverence and respect despite this. I feel like an outsider. When I become Steward I vow to do my duty in a way that would make my father proud."

"Do you want to be Steward?"

The reply was instant, almost impatient. "It's nothing to do with what I want, or don't want - it's my duty. It's what I was born to do."

"But your father makes you feel inadequate?"

"Yes," is the quiet reply. "But Finduilas - she makes me feel worthwhile. She's so beautiful. I can't believe she agrees to be my wife."

I look again at Flynn, who has paled at the mention of Finduilas - his mother, with whom he had so little time. His knuckles are clenched tightly, and I press "pause" and ask if he wants to continue. There is no hesitation in his response, although he takes a sip of water.

"Yes - I have to hear it all. I want to hear it all."

"Is it a happy marriage?" comes the voice of the hypno-therapist, and there is a pause before Denethor replies.

"Yes, I believe it to be - and she gives me a son. Boromir."

Another pause. "He's a strong healthy boy, my heir, destined one day to be the Steward of Gondor. Those were happy times, whilst my father was still alive, before I became Steward - relatively free of responsibilities and able to spend time together as a family. Yes, we were happy for a time, but Finduilas cares little for Minas Tirith, and her mood becomes more and more dark. She speaks little to me and I feel she blames me for taking her away from Dol Amroth and the sea. I feel lonely, and draw consolation from my son. But I can do no right for my wife. She accuses me of loving the child more than I love her, and she says I am trying to steal his love, which is nonsense. Boromir adores his mother - as do I."

I look at Flynn, and his face is impassive, but I feel sure that he feels the same excitement as I at hearing someone else speak of places and people that I had believed were the product of an over-active imagination.

"You and Finduilas continue to drift apart?" asks the therapist.

"She tells me she is bearing another child," is the reply. "And this time she carries it beyond a few weeks - there have been others that did not survive, but she is determined that this one will live. The next months see her almost an invalid. She takes a gentle walk around the citadel most days, and then retires to her bed-chamber to rest. Boromir is welcome there, but I am not. She refuses to be a wife to me for fear of hurting the child."

"Does this anger you, or do you understand her fears?" Denethor is asked.

"I try to understand, but the longer it continues, the more impatient I become...and........"

He hesitates until prompted.

"And?"

"I know it's irrational and unjust, but I resent the child. And even more so when it's born early and demands even more attention. Finduilas and Boromir seem obsessed with him, and although I despise myself for it, all I see is an underweight, mewling inconvenience."

"I think many fathers feel that way to begin with." the therapist suggested, and there followed a sardonic laugh from Denethor.

"Maybe - but I never felt this way about Boromir, and my feelings towards Faramir do not change as he grows. And yet I do love him for it is hard not to - he is an affectionate and caring child, but right from his birth I have been unable to control my irritation with him. This angers Finduilas and in my heart, I know she is right, but instead of heeding her, I become more resentful of the child and find even more fault with him. He is so young, but has a mind way beyond his years, and looks at me with eyes that both plead and accuse, understanding not why he incurs my wrath." 

There was a long pause before he spoke again, and when he did there was a catch in his voice which was thick with emotion.

"I never gave her the attention she needed. I failed to take seriously her feelings and did not notice how her depression was making her physically ill - but even worse than that, I ignored my own guilt and lay the blame on Faramir's birth - she was indeed weakened by that, but he was not responsible."

"You were in denial," suggested the therapist. "And transferance of guilt is a common reaction."

There was an audible sigh, which obviously came from Denethor, before he continued.

"I see myself in Faramir - a quiet, studious child, who is not what his father wants him to be. By constantly criticising my youngest son, it is as if I am justifying Ecthelion's opinions of myself. I know I hurt him, and I even draw a perverse pleasure from it, whilst at the same time, hating myself for doing so."

The tape continued with further evidence of Faramir's rejection by his father...how he was constantly compared unfavourably to Boromir, and how Denethor resented the love that his firstborn had in abundance for his young brother.

"Boromir is strong," continued the Steward of Gondor. "He is a warrior - fearless, and strong in both body and mind. Faramir loathes the spilling of blood for he ever looks for the good in men and fails to comprehend the evil that is pervading our lands. He feels compassion, which is a weakness in a soldier, and he concerns himself too much with the affairs of wizards. I know Mithrandir's plan, to ingratiate himself with one he hopes will one day wield some influence in Gondor. Boromir is immune to them, but from childhood has Faramir heeded blindly the words of the wizard, who fills his head with tales of elves and sorcery. Faramir shows all too many signs of the elvish blood that ran in the veins of his mother."

Denethor's tone became wistful. "Maybe that was the real problem - he was too like Finduilas. Ever was I reminded of her loss by his presence. Even when he becomes an Ithilien Ranger, and eventually their Captain, I praise him not, although I know he is a good soldier - especially more so because his heart is not in it, despite which he acquits himself well in battle, and his strategies are cunning and invariably prove successful."

I look to Flynn and see that he is very pale, and his eyes are closed. I stop the tape and ask him how he feels, listening to a documentation of his own past existence in the words of another.

He seems lost in thought and it is some while before he responds. "It's hard to explain, even to myself. Everything he says is familiar to me, but in a detached way, as though it's a film I've seen - but sometimes it seems to take over, and I become Faramir." 

He looks at me nervously.

"It scares me, for although it lasts just seconds, I lose my identity - I lose myself as I am now, and I think and feel as Faramir."

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"No," His voice is little more than a whisper. "I need to know why he did it." 

"Evil is a taking grip of our lands," continued the voice on the tape. "From the White Tower I foresee the end of our civilisation - we cannot hold back the threat of Mordor, and man is doomed. But then there comes hope, for the Ring of Power has been found. Boromir goes to Imladris to claim the Ring and bring it to Gondor - but he does not return."

At this point Denethor's voice cracked, and he began to sob. "He died a hero - defending the halflings from orcs…I am proud of him, but my heart is broken."

My eyes are drawn to Flynn once more, and I realize that he is reliving the loss of his beloved older brother. Tears are spilling from his sapphire blue eyes, and as he becomes aware of my gaze, he wipes the back of his hand across both cheeks.

"It's so strong," he says. "I can feel him - he's here with me, my brother - Boromir." 

He is deathly pale and trembling. A few weeks ago I would have dismissed his emotions as pure imagination, but I am sure now that he speaks the truth, and the spirit of Boromir is with him.

**TBC**


	4. Denethor 2

_**A/Ns**:_

**Redone:** I see your point, but it is basically a story about the characters we already know so well, and is moving to a conclusion involving those characters - to elaborate on the life of Flynn and his family would detract from that, but I must admit, I've become quite fond of him.

**Lhaewin:** I hope this hasn't given you a _complete_ nervous breakdown. :)

* * *

**Chapter 4 - Denethor (2)** _(Dedicated to Sarah (Monkey's Harp) who made me get on with this!)_

It takes some while for Flynn to compose himself and to continue listening to the tape. His feeling that his brother from another age was with him had been overpowering, and I thought at one point he was going to hyper-ventilate. He shifts from the comfort of the leather arm-chair to the floor, as though he does not want to feel in any way confined.

"I don't feel it now," he says eventually, and he runs his hands nervously through his dark hair, against which his face looks colourless. "But he was here. I _know_ it was Boromir - it was as though I was enveloped in a protective surround of sheer love - like he was holding me. I can't explain it."

Suddenly, his expression becomes one of sadness. "I want it to have been him - but if it was, does that mean that he hasn't been reborn - reincarnated?"

"I don't know," I tell him honestly. "I can only theorise. Maybe at this moment, his soul is drifting - but do you know of astral projection?"

He nods.

"Then you know that there are countless recorded cases of souls, spirits whatever, leaving their earthly bodies temporarily, and travelling across the astral plain. It may be that Boromir's spirit can do this, and has been drawn to you, empowered by the great love you shared."

"Then he'll find me - or he has found me?"

"It's possible," I reply. "It's also possible that only his soul is aware of you - that in the confines of human flesh, he has no conscious memory of you, or indeed of himself - but of course, that is only a theory."

He looks disappointed, and I become aware that I have become emotionally involved with this boy and am no longer able to remain dispassionate. Officially he is no longer my client, and if he asks for any advice now, I will give it as a friend. Though barely old enough to be his father, my feelings are both paternal and fraternal. He has an air of vulnerability, although at the same time I detect an inner strength, which is probably the core of his being. As he looks at me with large cerulean eyes, sparkling beneath long dark eyelashes, I feel an urge to protect him. Momentarily I even wonder if the spirit of his - of Faramir's - older and protective brother had not only been in the room, but remains so, within my body, but it is a thought that I almost instantly dismiss, for apart from it being extremely unlikely, I believe that to be possessed by the spirit of another would feel rather more dramatic, and with more effect, than just feeling an affection and a desire to protect.

"Shall we continue?" I ask, and the powerful voice of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, once more pervades the room.

"My son is dead. I blame myself - he did not wish to go to Imladris, but Gondor needed - I needed - the weapon of the enemy. Now it is likely to be our doom - sent into Mordor itself in the hands of a witless halfling, by my equally witless son. He may as well have given it to a child. Boromir died trying to bring the Ring to Gondor. Faramir had it in his grasp, but let it go. He betrayed me - he betrayed his brother."

I look at Flynn, but he remains surprisingly impassive, his concentration focused on the voice of "his father".

"At this moment, I despise my son. I despise his weakness, his disregard for my wishes. And most of all I despise the way he looks as always to Mithrandir for guidance. I tell him to retake Osgiliath. In my heart I know it is futile and that I will be sending him to his death, but if I must endure the loss of Boromir, I can certainly endure the loss of Faramir.

He asks me if I wish that he had died instead of his brother, and I answerthat I indeed wish that, but it iswithout thought - it is not my heart speaking, but my desire to hurt him. My wish is that Faramir had gone to Imladris as he had requested, nothing more - it is not that I wish him dead, but more that I wish Boromir alive. I do not tell him this, but I send him away with no kind word, and no farewell, no acknowledgement that he still tries only to do my will, to earn some recognition in my eyes. He wants at the least some affection and respect, but it is not until he returns more dead than alive that my heart and my eyes are opened to the love I feel for him.

The halfling Peregrin tries to tell me that he lives, but I do not heed him.......I have seen the hordes of Mordor at the gates. I do not wish for my son to be brought back from death to face such evil, when only torment and pain would be his fate. I have done little for him, but I can spare him that.......we will die together with some honour, not degraded and mutilated by a cruel enemy."

Flynn looks at me and despite the horror of what he is hearing, he looks almost exhilarated.

"He loved Faramir - he loved.....me."

I pause the tape, for I can guess what is coming. "Do you want to hear the rest - are you prepared for it?"

He nods. "I have no problem with it...it can't be worse than the first time."

"Faramir is on the pyre - he is drenched in oil......I look at him, and regret my harsh treatment of him. He looks like a child, a helpless little boy, and I know I have failed him - as I have failed Finduilas and Boromir, for they looked to me to take care of him. I spent my life trying to be worthy of Gondor - a good son, a good Steward, but I was a poor husband, and an even poorer father, especially to my youngest. Always I found fault, and would demean and humiliate him. In my heart I knew that Faramir would be a good soldier, if not a natural one, for heis not given to impetuousity, but is blessed with good instinct and a rational, logical mind. I was no better than a bully to my gentle son, who deserved it not, and never failed to show me respect and loyalty."

"Do you have any answers?" asks the therapist. "Do you know why you rejected your son?"

"I do now," Denethor answered, "For much becomes clear in those few moments. I had so much resentment in my heart - I resented his relationships with Boromir, with Mithrandir, even with his mother. They all adored him and this reminded me of all the inadequacies I felt as a child and as a youth. I resented his wisdom. I resented that his blood was maybe even stronger and purer than my own - than Boromir's." There was a long pause, before Denethor added in a voice choked with emotion, "_I resented my son because he was everything I wanted to be........"_

At this, Flynn finally breaks down, and I switch off the tape. He is still sitting on the floor, legs drawn up, his arms wrapped around them, and his head on his knees. Tentatively I place an arm on the gently convulsing shoulders. Although this kind of scene is all too familiar to me, I am no longer detached from this boy's situation and I feel a lump forming in my throat at his distress.

After a minute or so, he raises his head. His cheeks are still wet with tears, and he seems uncomfortable and embarrassed. "Sorry," he says softly. "It got a bit much there - hearing him crack like that. He was never emotional."

My stomach lurches as I realise the implications of his words.

"Flynn - do you realise what you're saying?" I ask, and he looks at me, confused.

"You talk as though you remember him - but you aren't in regression." I shake my head in disbelief.

"I do remember," he replies. "Not everything - some of it is still like the sensation of having watched it on TV, as it was before, but some things are very real. Things have been getting clearer all the time since my last regression."

He obviously recognises my concern, and smiles as if to reassure me. "I'm OK - I know who I am. I'm still Flynn....Faramir is just a memory. An important one, but a memory nonetheless."

He looks towards the cassette recorder. "Can we go on? I think it's almost over."

"I command my men to set a fire," said Denethor. "I have no fear - just a longing for peace, and to be reunited with my wife, and my two boys. The flames are around me, and around my son - my beautiful son. And then Mithrandir is there - interfering yet again. The halfling is there also, and there is much confusion. I can feel the heat of the flames, and pain, increasing pain with every second - and between them Mithrandir and Peregrin remove Faramir from the pyre, and beat the flames from his body.......and then I see his eyes open, and he looks to me. In that moment before death takes me, my only wish is to hold him, and to make amends, but my mind is failing now for I can tolerate the pain no longer, and then all is black, and there is pain no more."

Flynn gives a deep sigh, and looks thoughtful.

"I have to be Faramir again," he says finally.

"You want another regression?" I ask.

"No," he replies, "I don't need to be regressed - I have to meet this guy, and I have to talk to him as his son. It's the only way to achieve closure - for all of us - for Faramir, for Denethor - and for myself."

**TBC**


	5. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE (Flynn's story)**

I waited alone - it was what we both wanted, "Denethor" and me. Brendan Creagh understood, even though I know he really wanted to be present at the end of my journey. He has become a good friend, and to be honest, a big part of me needed him there, because I felt nervous and apprehensive about meeting someone who although a total stranger, had once been my father. Of this there was no doubt in my mind, for how else could he and I have shared the same memories of a time so long ago that all records have since been lost or destroyed.

As the door opened I felt a rising panic - I could feel my heart thumping, my throat became dry, and my breathing rapid. Was this just nerves, or was it, as my instinct told me, the effect that Denethor might have on Faramir.

At first he just looked at me, and I learned after that he was thinking the same as I - that neither of us bore any resemblance to the person in our regressed memory. He was tall, much taller than I, with dark hair which was very short and flecked with grey, and his eyes which were brown, lacked any kind of sparkle, although considering his history of depression and anxiety, this was understandable. Finally, he extended his hand to shake mine - his grip was strong, and it felt like a charge of electricity shooting into my arm.

"Martin Coulson," he said, and I was relieved that he, like me, was still in touch with his current personality. Despite reassurances from his doctor, I was afraid that he might have totally "become" Denethor, and I had been unsure of how I would react if this had this been the case.

Before I had time to respond, he added, "And you're Flynn." It was obviously more of a statement than a question, but I nodded in confirmation.

For a moment we were both silent, and I began to feel uncomfortable with his gaze.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he realised my discomfort, "But your eyes - they are quite disconcerting. Your face is unfamiliar, but your eyes are not - they are unquestionably those of Faramir, and I think they must have been forever in my subconscious, for they were eyes that said far more to me than his voice ever did, for he knew I would not listen. It is said that they mirror the soul, and in Faramir's eyes had I chosen to see it, was a soul as pure as a man's could be."

I smiled, although I now felt very tense, for I didn't know Martin Coulson. I only "knew" Denethor, and so this was who I saw in front of me. Suddenly I began to feel dizzy, as my head became a tangled mess of sensations and emotions, and although somewhat unbelievably I was still aware that I was Flynn Kearney, the part of me that was Faramir took over.

"You never showed me any love or even compassion," I said, "Not even when my mother died, or when Boromir died. Other people were kind to me - but I needed you......and then...then you wished me dead. Do you know what that did to me - that I lost control of all logic and sense. My men didn't die because of you...they died because of me. Because I was too grief stricken to defy you. I never truly recovered from that guilt."

"I know how badly I behaved," Martin replied softly, "And it grieves me that I can't change it, or the consequences."

Hesitantly, his arm went around my shoulder, and in an instant he was a stranger no more. He was Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and I was his son.

"Would that I could get that time back, and do things differently, but I can't," he said sorrowfully. "All I can do is say that I'm sorry, which is nowhere near enough."

He cupped my chin with his hand, and as he turned my head towards him, I noticed that his eyes were glistening. Then with both hands, he held my face and looked at me intently. "The guilt and shame I suffered has followed me through countless lifetimes. During my regression it was a feature of all the lives I remembered. Can you imagine the depth and intensity of those feelings - to have survived for so long, and to continually eat away at my conscience regardless of who I was? I have been in endless torment, and I believe I have been searching for you since that time and that my soul has never rested."

"So you just need peace?" I said, and I knew I sounded ungracious, as it occurred to me that once again Denethor was thinking only of Denethor.

He shook his head. "Of course I need peace," he said, "But my torment is of my own making, not a punishment from the Gods. They had no need to punish me whilst I was punishing myself so well. My regrets and my guilt come from within, for I know now how very wrong I was. You were my child - my youngest - my baby. You were my kind and gentle son - a son I should have been proud of."

At this his voice finally cracked, and he began to sob. "I don't ask your forgiveness," he said, "For what I did was unforgiveable - but I do want you to believe me when I tell you that my sorrow is genuine, and I wish more than anything that I could change the way things were - change the way I was."

"When you said I should have died instead of Boromir.....you did kill me in all but body. I went to Osgiliath to ensure that my death was complete. Had I not been so indifferent to my fate, I would have listened to Mithrandir, and not taken my men on a suicide mission."

By this time, I too was crying, and when Martin attempted to gently wipe away my tears with his hand, it only made me cry more. I felt as though the tears of several ages were spilling from my eyes, taking with them all the fear and doubt that I had ever endured. His arms engulfed me then, and he held me close to his chest, as he stroked my hair, and softly kissed my head, before saying the words my soul had longed for.

"I love you Faramir," he whispered.

After the encounter with Martin Coulson, I felt physically sick, and emotionally drained. I was still shaking as I rejoined Brendan - what had just happened to me was surreal. I had met my father from a previous existence, and maybe helped, or indeed invoked, by the deep feelings that lie within me, I had thought, and spoken, as Faramir. For a short while, every thought and emotion I had was his.

"What now?" asked Brendan as we left the hospital. "Will you see him again?"

"I don't know," I replied. "It's too soon - we're both still confused and emotional to think about that, and at the moment, something he said seems all too true - that he didn't expect my forgiveness, because what he did was unforgiveable. And that's how I feel. I can't forgive him yet, but I did give him what he needed - I accepted that his regret was sincere. Maybe in the future we'll see each other, I don't know - but I think we'll write now and then."

"So Faramir isn't going to just go away?" asked Brendan.

I thought for a moment before I answered, for I had suddenly realised exactly what I wanted to do...what I have to do.

"No," I said, "Because somewhere out there Faramir has a big brother who he never said goodbye to, and if I have to talk to every hynotherapist in the world to find him, then I will."

**THE END**. _(Or is it.......)_

Thanks to everyone for the kind comments. I think in the end poetic licence just took over, so thanks for your tolerance. Anyway, I got there in the end - I achieved what I wanted, Denethor and Faramir reconciling in at least one kind of reality, rather than in a dream or after death.


End file.
